


Retirement

by spica_starson



Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Major book spoilers, Missing Scene, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Set in 'The Lady of the Lake', really major
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24964963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_starson/pseuds/spica_starson
Summary: “I’m tired, Dandelion,” interrupted Geralt, voice quiet but not without its weight, the coldness finally cracking to pave a way for the weariness he seemed to shoulder every single day. “I have been for a long time now.”A little conversation between Geralt and Dandelion on their way to Rivia about a certain someone retiring—just before the two friends meet up with Zoltan Chivay and Yarpen Zigrin in a tavern in Elm, and everything else that followed.(Contains MAJOR spoiler of the Book series' ending, proceed with caution!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804720
Kudos: 17





	Retirement

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this, you've either read the books and know what you're getting yourself into, or you purposely ignored my warnings and want to proceed regardless (out of sheer curiosity perhaps?). Anywho! Buckle up, because you're in for a short but painful ride. This is basically a retelling of the ending of _The Lady of the Lake_ from Dandelion's POV, as well as a 'Missing Scene' before their arrival in Rivia. I had to write this to give myself some form of closure, and I hope you readers enjoy it as well. Now, onward to the story:

* * *

_'Well, Geralt?' asked Dandelion, by way of ending the awkward silence. 'Did you track the fiend down?'_

_'No. It isn't a night for tracking. It's a turbulent night. Uneasy...I'm tired, Dandelion.'_

_'Well, sit down. Relax.'_

_'You misunderstood me.'_

**(Andrzej Sapkowski, _Time of Contempt_ )**

* * *

”I’m retiring.”

Crimson licked up and around their sparse encampment that night, the two travelers forced yet again to settle down for the day as daylight abandoned them under the scrutinising gaze of the moon.

Startled, Dandelion blinked at the unmoving figure across the burning timber, shadows moving languidly along his stony countenance.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m retiring, Dandelion,” he repeated, his voice retaining the apathetic undertone that had been plaguing him ever since Ciri’s absence. The same expression he wore after they passed the band of captured Nilfgaardians a few nights ago never wavering. 

Cold. Impassive.

Dandelion did not like it one bit.

“What’s gotten into you, Geralt?” snorted the bard after another second squinting at his friend. His lute sat on his lap, a comfortable weight as he absently stroked the polished wood. “I can’t possibly know what exactly you’re retiring from, but this boorish mood of yours isn’t exactly pleasant either, White Wolf.”

“That’s exactly it,” snapped said Witcher, finally raising his eyes to meet his. Fire danced behind honey-gold eyes, and Dandelion wondered for a split-second whether it was simply a reflection or something else entirely. “I am a White Wolf no longer. I _quit_. Don’t you understand?”

Silence.

Not even a whisper of a scream was in the air, for once the only stifling thing surrounding them was the thick, suffocating air of a warm Spring. Seconds, long seconds passed before someone finally broke the fragile stillness.

“If I am hearing you correctly,” said the poet slowly, incredulity dripping from every word, “you mean to say that you’re... _retiring_ from being a Witcher. The very thing you were created- no, _modified_ to do since you were a wee, small child. Your very purpose in life for the many lifetimes you’ve lived through.”

Geralt grunted an affirmative, his attention back to the sizzling flame dancing between them.

Lips pressed thinly, the troubadour carefully watched the friend he had known for decades, the one he had loyally followed for much of his adult life, mouth opening before clamping back down. There were hundreds of facts he could throw at the not-witcher, questions that demanded to be answered, just lying in the tip of his tongue.

But Dandelion knew him too well by now.

 _That at least explains his strange reaction last time_ , he thought wryly, leaning back to rest against his satchel, lute snuggly held within his grasp.

“Tell me then, Geralt the Not-Witcher,” he sighed, strumming his lute with no particular song in mind. Their journey across the war-ridden settlements and scorched lands bore no inspiration nor motivation in him to even start singing. “What brought this on?”

“You already know who.”

“Ah, yes,” said the bard, looking up to count the stars above, “your beloved Yennefer and the daughter you’ve finally found once more. But that doesn’t—”

“I’m tired, Dandelion,” interrupted Geralt, voice quiet but not without its weight, the coldness finally cracking to pave a way for the weariness he seemed to shoulder every single day. “I have been for a long time now.”

Memories of that turbulent, stormy night in Hirundum rushed into the poet’s mind like a raging waterfall, the exact same words spoken by the not-witcher on the front porch of the halfling Hofmeier’s dwellings.

He had foolishly thought his friend was simply drained from his failed hunt of what appeared to be an imaginary beast, offering him to sit down and relax as the weather grew more uneasy; winds slapping wildly against the shutters, lightning accompanying the piercing cry of thunder in the gloom of night.

Now...now he understood.

“I could try to reason with you, mention the many things you’ve probably yet to consider—but I know you well enough to recognise that as a lost cause,” shrugged the bard with a wave, putting aside his lute to find the least unpleasant position on rocky ground. They had laid down the usual blanket they use in travel, but the surface of this particular campsite had not been kind. Geralt said nothing. 

“I’ve only ever wished happiness for you, my friend,” whispered Dandelion after a long period of shared silence, facing the dark sky with its glittering stars, reminding him of nights spent with several other persons, of shared foods and laughters as they trudged behind their white-haired leader. The brief whiplash of memories with the Hanza momentarily caught him off-guard, throat constricting painfully along with an ache in his chest.

“If-” Coughing away the sudden onslaught of emotions altering his voice, he tried again: “ _If_ that is your choice, then I shall respect it. No need to explain your reasoning to me any further.”

“I had no plans to do so,” jabbed the witcher-no-longer with a huff from the other side of the waning fire, now comfortably settled on his bedroll as well.

Rolling his eyes, the bard slid his hands underneath his head. “Would I be wrong to presume that’s what you intend to tell the dwarves when we rendezvous with them later?”

“...No, you guessed correctly.”

“Hmm...they might not be as accommodating to the idea as I am,” warned Dandelion.

A snort. “I’ll deal with them when the time comes. Now sleep, bard. We’ve still got a long way ahead of us.”

Agreeing with the statement and not really finding any energy within himself to retort back, the poet acquiesced, letting his mind drift off into the land of oblivion.

Rivia was just a few nights away. Afterwards...a new chapter of their life begins.

* * *

Unfortunately, destiny had other plans for them. As she always did.

Screams. Horrific screams filled the air.

Everywhere he turned, crimson swallowed the many carts containing worthless artefacts, houses, every building in the area and- bodies. Non-humans bodies. Elfs, dwarves; no matter the age or sex, no matter if they had nothing to do with the war—

They burned and _burned_ , blood and guts spilling to every possible crevice in this hollow shell of a town, swallowing them whole like an unforgiving flood of savages.

Dandelion watched as Geralt reached for the abandoned Sihil on the wall, calloused hands trembling—not from fear, but anger, pure unadulterated anger at the injustice that was happening around them.

Wide, fearful eyes trained on the witcher as he jumped out the porch, his dark figure disappearing to be swallowed by the bloodthirsty masses below.

“Very well,” the mutant had growled, locking eyes with the groaning bard one last time before he stormed off. “But this is the last time! Dammit, it really is the last time!”

 _He’ll be fine_ , thought Dandelion nervously, clenching his hands on the railings hard enough to bruise as he scanned the crowd, desperately keeping track of where his friend was. _He’s fought in worse situations. A mob of raging, blood-lusting crowd is nothing. Nothing at all—_

Oh, how terribly wrong he was.

Everything happened in a blink of an eye, but time seemed to slow down torturously as the pitchfork wedged itself deeply into the witcher’s torso; his loud, pained howl reaching his ears and will forever be imprinted in his memories. Blood, so much blood gushing out of his stomach as the man stumbled and fell into his own pool of sickly red and Dandelion-

_“GERALT—!”_

If Wirsing hadn’t caught him in time, the bard would have leaped from his perch to fight his way to his friend’s side. All that followed was a blur of shouting and shoving, the hiding dwarves suddenly on his side and pushing their way through the chaos. He didn’t remember when he had acquired a broom into his hands, but it didn’t matter. Smacking everyone who dared to come close, Dandelion fought with a strength he never thought he had, his eyes always returning to the deserted patch of cobblestone where a certain witcher lay completely still. _Too still._

Fueled with his numbing fear and a deep-seated fury, he pushed through until a wide enough berth was secured.

It felt like an eternity before he finally reached Geralt’s side.

An eternity too long.

Shakily, he maneuvered the witcher onto his back, pressing his doublet against the wound to try and stop the blood flow. _Stop,_ he pleaded, face scrunching up in despair, _please._ His friend lay still as a statue, tremors working its way into blood-speckled hands as the unending stream of hot liquid dripped into the wet pool on his knees.

“Zoltan,” croaked the bard, breath swallow, “he- he needs a healer-”

“I’ve already sent for one, Dandelion,” said the presence beside him, heavy and sombre.

But they both knew it would be far too late.

Not a moment too soon, a familiar black shadow flew into his peripheral vision; and on top of it, a person they had been waiting for before all this. Whom Geralt was so excited to introduce to his friends. The cheeky little girl—now a proud young woman—who warmly returned the hug he enveloped her in after their brisk escape out of Toussaint, as he had promised.

“Ciri—” started the bard weakly as he glanced up from his bloodied hands, still covering the gaping wound as if it would make any difference; only to look away shortly after seeing the expression on the girl’s scarred face.

As the young charge wordlessly fell onto her knees before her guardian, Dandelion was about to leave her to her privacy when the sky abruptly darkened, cold wind blowing harshly against their skin.

_Magic._

It thrummed in the air, tingling beneath his skin; and as huge chunks of hailstone started to fall from above, a magical bubble protecting him and the few people in their vicinity, Dandelion prayed desperately to every gods and goddesses he knew of that help would arrive in time.

That this was a second chance given to the man who deserved much better than what life had thrown at him. To let him finally live with the happiness he had sought for so long.

But it was not to be. Yennefer dropped down to her knees beside Ciri, chanting spells after spells as she desperately held Geralt’s head in her hands, visibly quivering from the exertion. The bard stepped back to let her work and noticed the second sorceress on Yennefer’s side, caught the red-head before she stumbled to the ground. It was the least- the _only_ thing he could do now.

Despair and helplessness shook him to his core as he watched the red, thick liquid spewing out of his dying friend in spasms, wheezes rattling his pale body as blood slowly drained out of his veins. Then the Witcher stopped moving entirely. A final parting breath.

And as the once proud sorceress silently slumped down in a heap right next to Geralt, Dandelion wept, quiet and muffled.

Triss did not react to him, despite still being held by what he knew were his quacking arms, suspiciously rigid and silent beneath him.

Dandelion cried on, pain clenching his broken heart like a vice at the unfair end his dearest friend had to endure. Tears after tears dripped down his face with a vengeance, the bard trying his damnest to keep himself from wailing aloud despite the oppressive silence that followed. _After everything, all the adventures and misgivings he's gone through…_

This was not what he had envisioned when Geralt told him he was retiring. Not like this. Never like this.

As the ethereal appearance of the unicorn graced their presence, a mysterious boat materialising from within the dream-like fog, the poet felt a certain pull at his chest; a gentle tug, urging him to let go of Triss and gingerly carry Yennefer to the boat at the young girl’s plea for help. He felt their presence then: _Cahir. Milva. Angoulême._

His chest tightened.

He watched as Ciri wiped her forehead and sniffed, a sad but determined smile on her face as she addressed them:

“Farewell then, Triss Merigold. Farewell, Dandelion. Farewell, all of you.”

And then they were gone, swallowed by the mist.

Dandelion staggered, feeling a pang in the hollow cavity in his chest, reality crushing him like a massive boulder to his heart. The loss of his beloved friend and those closest to him fresh in his mind as he whispered brokenly into the now-still waters: “Something has ended.”

_And..._

_Something is beginning._

His only hope was that he could be a part of it too, whatever it entails.

While he waited, he would sing about the life of the noble Witcher, the White Wolf; about his Child Destiny and the power of their unbreakable bond; about the undying love between him and the elusive sorceress of Vengerberg, united even in death. About his bravery and indisputably kind soul. About the sacrifices he had made for others and himself.

Till his dying breath, he would recount their tales and make sure every single generation following him remembers them, no matter what age or year they were born, no matter what profession they live by. To be immortalized and live forever in their hearts and minds.

That is his legacy. As this is Geralt’s.

That was the least he could do for his best friend after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The first half was born out of me realizing that Dandelion hadn't spoken much when Geralt told the dwarves about him retiring- my first thought was: 'Heck. He probably already knew about it.' So I had to write down how I thought it had gone haha! Also a bit of a call-back to _Time of Contempt_ bc we love them refs to older books ;0;
> 
> Now the ending of the books has always been ambiguous, and it's meant to be that way. I didn't want to sully it but at the same time I wanted to see the event unfolding from Dandelion's perspective. I really hope I achieved that :"D 
> 
> Feedback/comments are more than welcome! <3


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